


what she calls him

by bensolosgirlfriend



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Reylo Baby, Slow Burn, but not yet, no seriously it’s angsty, there will be smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 07:48:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25467268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bensolosgirlfriend/pseuds/bensolosgirlfriend
Summary: Until his world crashes down before him.A beautiful, dark haired girl, with a smile that fills her entire face, a little lopsided and endlessly charming. A little five-year-old named Hope with eyes that twinkle and the most loud, ridiculous clothing he’s ever seen. A tiny daughter with ten chubby fingers, and ten wiggly toes, with a laugh that makes his heart race and a painfully familiar face.OR Ben comes back after six-years completely estranged to a surprise.
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey & Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 7
Kudos: 97





	what she calls him

The door is unlocked. It’s so suburban of them—to leave their front door unlocked. Ben had begged them growing up to lock it, but they had insisted that, “nothing bad happens in Chandrila.” His parents made it all too easy for him when he would sneak out in high school, and at that point he’d stopped worrying about anything getting broken into. So Ben opens the door, without knocking, without ringing the doorbell.

He’s greeted by a foyer that hasn’t changed: a fancy mirror on the wall to his right, a sealed closet on the left. Stairs to his front and the living room to his right. If he walks around the stairs, he can just picture his mother doting in the kitchen over dinner, stuffing a chicken she’ll overcook or making his favorite grilled cheese. She’ll have a glass of red wine in her hand, perfectly manicured nails clicking on the cutting board. His father will be in the living room to her left, running through the channels on the television, or in the garage, fiddling with the Falcon until he needs Ben’s help jumping it. Then his mother will call him in for dinner and make sure he drinks enough water and eats his vegetables, even if he’s nearly a grown man.

It’s been six years since his mother has fed him, six years since he’s jumped his father’s car.

The house isn’t quiet. If it weren’t for his father’s old truck in the driveway and his mother’s roses in the window, the house an exact replica of his childhood, he would think he’s walked into the wrong home. He can hear a child’s laughter from the kitchen, bright and cheerful. Happy. She’s squealing in delight, and his mother is laughing with her, a charming chuckle. His father is making a fuss about something, but he’s laughing, too. He’s sure behind the stairs, behind the archway into his kitchen, he’ll find a sweet scene, with a giggling child and his parents fussing over her.

He’s just unclear why he’d find such a scene.

Ben habitually slips his shoes off and places them in the shoe rack under the mirror. There’s still a pair of his old running shoes on the bottom row, red and battered. He pads gently across the foyer hallway and peers into the kitchen. His mother is hunched over a bowl with a hand mixer, his father sitting at the table clipping coupons with a pair of glasses on the bridge of his nose—those are new. And there is a child, no older than five years old, standing on a step-stool next to his mother.

She’s smiling. She’s an exquisite little girl, with messy black hair and shiny, brown eyes. She’s pale, and freckled, with a toothy grin and a cute little voice. She’s in a pretty, rainbow dress and has a green headband in her dark hair, with a little bow on it. She has chocolate all over her chubby fingers and mouth. Ben takes a step further into the kitchen.

It’s the same as he’d left it. White tiles, white countertops, and gray cabinets. The walls are still pastel blue and it’s still littered with duck figurines that his mother collects. There’s still four chairs at the table, for a family of what’s been two—or perhaps three, now. Maybe they’ve adopted a little girl, to replace their little boy that wandered off into the darkness. Perhaps they decided they wanted a favorite instead of a disappointment.

Still, the little girl is delightful. She’s bright and charming, and terrifyingly familiar.

Ben stands in the archway for not a moment longer before somebody notices him, and it’s his father. A gasp catches in his throat when he says, “Ben?”

“What’s that, sweetie?” his mother asks, turning to his father with a smile. When she sees his shocked face, her eyes widen. She follows his line of sight, and drops the hand mixer.

“Grandma!” the little girl cheers. “Are you okay?”

“Grandma?” Ben asks.

Leia turns from Ben to the little girl on the step stool. She smiles soothingly, placing her hands on the little girls shoulders. She grabs a towel and begins wiping her hands. “Hope, sweetie, why don’t you go inside and play with your toys for a little? We’ll finish the brownies later.”

“But Grandma—”

She tsk’s with a tense smile. “For grandma? Please?”

Hope pauses for a moment, before smiling. “Okay, grandma, but we have to finish the brownies!”

“Of course.” Leia pats her head, pressing a kiss to her forehead. The little girl skips into the den to find her toys. Ben is frozen in place.

“Grandma?” he asks again.

“Ben, sweetie,” she breathes. “You’re here.”

“Why did she call you that?” He takes a step forward.

“Now, Ben—” his father tries with a frown.

“What?” he seethes. “Are we just taking in strays now?”

Han sputters while his mother sighs. “Excuse me?”

“Having them call you Grandma and Grandpa?” he sneers. “Thinking you can just replace me?”

His mother is frowning, now, when before she looked hopeful. Coldly, she says, “you have no idea what you’re talking about, Benjamin.”

“I think I do.” He crosses his arms. He’s fighting tears now, his eyes misty. Maybe it had been wishful thinking, but he assumed his parents would miss him—not replace him, but perhaps his teacher had been right about one thing. Perhaps his parents truly didn’t care about him. Perhaps they’d been waiting for the moment to bring in another, perfect child to fix his mistakes. “I’m sorry I wasn’t enough for you.”

“It isn’t like that,” Han says. “Hope isn’t—she’s not—”

“And she’s what? Five?” he spits. “Did you replace me the second I left?”

“It’s not—” his mother tries, again, but they’re interrupted by a door slamming.

“Han, Leia!” someone calls. “Sorry I’m late!”

Ben would recognize that voice anywhere, honey and kindness, fruit and sincerity. It used to whisper in his ear, words of longing and love. It used to press itself against his neck and sigh. It used to call his name while wrapped around him. It used to laugh at his quiet jokes, and tease him relentlessly.

He hears a shuffle of keys while she takes off her shoes. He can see her back, and her long, chestnut hair—longer than he’s ever seen it—from his place in the kitchen. If she turns around, if she enters the kitchen, he’ll be able to see her face, her plush, pink lips, and her wide, green eyes, her smile that takes up her whole face and her high cheek bones. He wonders if she’s aged, if she has more freckles, if the rings under her twinkly eyes have gotten any darker.

She enters the kitchen with a smile that falls immediately.

She’s perfect in her little sundress, as tall and feminine as he remembered. She’s all collarbones and long limbs, perhaps a little more tired-looking and with even more freckles than he could count but would spend all the time in the world doing so, anyway. He’s missed her the most, her sparkly eyes and easy grin. He wants to hear her wax poetic about music and brag about her math scores. He wants to hear her tell one of her fiery jokes or ask him how he’s feeling. He wants to know why she’s here.

Instead, she says, with horror in her voice, “Ben?”

“What is she doing here?” Ben asks, finally, after watching all three of them exchange looks. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t missed her. He’d also being lying if he said he has any idea why she’d be here at this moment.

Until his world crashes down before him.

A beautiful, dark haired girl, with a smile that fills her entire face, a little lopsided and endlessly charming. A little five-year-old named Hope with eyes that twinkle and the most loud, ridiculous clothing he’s ever seen. A tiny daughter with ten chubby fingers, and ten wiggly toes, with a laugh that makes his heart race and a painfully familiar face.

He whispers the only thing that comes to mind. “Fuck.”

“Oh my god,” Rey sobs. She’s got her hand to her forehead now and she’s pacing. “Where’s Hope?”

“The den,” Leia offers, and Rey is off before he can ask another question, a very important question, the most important question.

“She’s not—“ he tries, first, and then he says, “you didn’t adopt her, did you?”

Han shakes his head. “No, we did not.”

“Rey is her mother.”

“Yes, she is,” says Leia.

“How old is Hope?” he asks.

“She’s five-years, and two-months.”

Rey rushes back into the kitchen, a child on her hip, stepping frantically through the kitchen. They’re the perfect picture of mother and daughter. Hope has Rey’s button nose, and Rey’s perfect smile, and Ben’s messy hair, and Ben’s dark, endless eyes.

“Am I forgetting anything?” she asks, to Leia and Han.

“Well, you’ve got Hope,” Han jokes, trying to ease the tension. It doesn’t work.

Rey freezes in the kitchen. Hope is playing with her hair. “Do we have to go?” Hope asks.

“Yes, sweetie,” she says, patting down her daughter’s hair. “Grandma and Grandpa are busy right now.”

“Who’s that?” she asks, pointing rudely at Ben as any child would.

“He’s their friend,” she says, and it stabs Ben in the gut. He never expected his first introduction to his daughter would be as a friend, as much as he ever expected to be introduced to a daughter—and a beautiful one, at that. A perfect one. A spectacular mix of him and Rey that he doesn’t know he wanted, needed until it’s right in front of him.

“She’s…” he trails off.

Rey meets his wondering gaze with cold distance and a frown. “I know.” She takes her daughter in her arms, and storms out of the house. Ben can’t move his legs to chase after her, and he’s not sure if he should, anyway.

“Oh, Ben.” His mother places her hand on his shoulder, gently. He doesn’t shrug her off.

* * *

With misty eyes, Ben pulls up to a small condo in a quaint complex at an address his parents gave him. It’s white, with its own little driveway and pretty roses in the window he knows are his own mother’s doing. Rey’s old Jeep is in the front like nothing has changed—except, there’s a carseat in the back, and a baby on board sticker on the trunk.

He exits his car with a long sigh. He freezes in the driveway, slowly locking his car. How is he even supposed to go about this? He hasn’t seen Rey in six years, hasn’t spoken a word to her, shared a text, liked a post since he made himself disappear all those years ago. Now he has no choice but to make contact with her—or, well, he couldn’t live with himself if he didn’t.

Not knowing now what he’s been missing this whole time.

He just wants to see her again. He wants to take a good, long look at Hope. He wants to see her smile, and laugh, like she was doing with his mother. He wants to hear her little voice while she tells him about her day. He wants to hear her talk to her mother about anything and everything. He wants to count every one of Rey’s freckles on Hope’s face. He wants to get a better look at her ears and pray she takes after her mother. He wants to know Hope.

He has no right to know Hope. Rey owes him nothing.

With small, nervous steps, he begins his ascent of her driveway to the clean, white door of her condo. It’s a perfect little home for a mother and daughter, with a tiny yard with enough room for running around and playing. He covers ground much too quickly and suddenly he’s standing in front of Rey’s front door, the front door of the mother of his child.

He knocks.

There’s no answer, at first. Ben can’t sense any motion, but her car is in the driveway. She’s certainly home, so he knocks again.

This time he can hear a flourish of noise at the door, but the handle doesn’t move. He knows she’s looking through the peephole, listening, but she’s not exactly quiet. Maybe she’s not trying to be, maybe she rightfully doesn’t care. She doesn’t have to let him in when she finally sees who it is.

Ben holds his breath when he hears the click of the lock. Slowly, the door opens to Rey, his perfect Rey, his endlessly beautiful Rey with countless freckles and a smile that fills up her whole face—except she isn’t smiling now. She’s frowning. She says, “I figured you’d come.”

There aren’t enough words in any language to express exactly how he’s feeling right now, so instead he says, “I’m so sorry.”

Her eyes narrow. “That’s unnecessary.”

“If I had known—”

She cuts him off with a sigh. “We all tried to make contact. For years.”

He swallows. His mouth is so dry. “Years?”

She opens up the door a little wider. “You’re not an easy man to get a hold of.”

“I didn’t want to be found.”

She rolls her eyes. “Clearly. And look what you missed.”

Tears well in Ben’s eyes, big and fat, tempted to fall and roll down his cheeks. He takes a large breath. “She’s perfect.”

“I know,” she says, just like she did the last time. This time, she continues, “she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. So maybe I should thank you.”

A tear does fall, then, hot down his cheek and he doesn’t rub it away with his palm. He lets it trickle uncomfortably down his neck. He doesn’t know where he gets off crying when this is all his doing. Hope could have been the best thing that happened to him, too. He could’ve—he should’ve—

She sighs. “Don’t cry,” she says. She lifts a hand and brushes away the tear on his neck, but it only makes him cry harder.

“I’m so sorry,” he takes another step toward her, and she doesn’t take a step back. Before he can think, he gathers her in his arms. “I’m sorry, I fucked up, I can’t, I can’t,” and then he’s sobbing, shaking, holding her while she pats his back. Rey is too good, too kind, and when any other woman would have shut the door in his face, Rey, the mother of his child who’s been trying to make contact with him for years, holds him. She hushes him and invites him into her home.

“She’s asleep,” she says, when she invites him in by taking a long step back that he follows. “Long day at school.”

He nods his head, pushing away his sobs with the palms of his hands. He takes a seat at the small table in her tiny kitchen. The table is covered in crayons, and papers, and he takes one and gives it a long look. It’s a flower, pink and green, with a yellow center and a pretty blue sky. Hope drew this.

“She’s obsessed with flowers,” Rey explains when she catches him staring. “Coffee?”

“Sure. Can I keep this?” he whispers.

Rey sighs. “She won’t be happy if her drawings are gone.”

He nods his head. “Right, right.”

She stares at him for a long moment before making herself busy with the coffee pot. Quietly, she tells him, “I must have something around here you can keep.”

“Thank you,” he says softly, and continues to look through his daughter’s work. It looks the same as anything a five-year-old would draw, but it’s Hope’s. His daughter’s.

Rey sits down with a hot cup of coffee for him. “A little cream, like you like it.” He takes it with a nod and inhales a long sip. It’s the cheap stuff, like Rey likes, dissolved into hot water with a mixing spoon.

“Thank you.”

She nods her head. They sit in silence for a long moment before she asks, “why did you come back?”

Ben places his mug down with a gentle click. “I quit.”

Her eyes widen. “You quit? But—”

“It was soul-sucking,” he admits. “I missed…”

“Yes?”

“My parents,” he starts. “I missed Chewie, and Poe, and…” he swallows. “You. I missed you.”

She nods her head. “I see.”

“I didn’t know…”

“I know you didn’t. I’m… I’m happy to hear you left Snoke.”

“My parents were, too,” he admits.

“Your parents…” she trails off with a small smile. “They’ve been absolutely incredible. They’ve been excited since Hope was the size of a pea. She loves them.”

Ben nods.

“I…” Rey trails off. Ben watches her think, eyebrows furrowed while she bites her pretty, pink lips. She looks frighteningly the same as she did at eighteen, maybe a little older, maybe a little less baby fat, but all Rey. “I don’t know how to do this.”

“What do you mean?”

“Meeting her, I don’t… god, Ben,” she runs a hand through her hair, “she’s spent her whole lite without a dad.”

“I know.”

“And she’s so strong for it,” Rey tells him. “She has me, and her grandparents, and her uncles, but… she’s been doing so well.”

“That’s amazing.”

“It is!” she agrees. “Which is why… I don’t know how you can meet her.”

He feels the hot tears again. “What?”

“This is uncharted territory. How can I just introduce you?” she asks. “She’s in such a good place, Ben, and…”

“I can’t meet her?” he asks, so painfully softly, with so much fear, that Rey’s own face falls.

“I don’t know how,” she admits. “It’s not that I don’t want you to—well—I don’t know what I want, really, only what’s best for Hope, Ben, and you haven’t—she hasn’t—how do I—”

“I understand.” He nods his head, but the tears are flowing again, freely and without regard.

“She comes first, Ben,” she says, final. And he agrees with a nod of his head. “I don’t think it’s right to introduce you as her Dad…”

A sob rips through his calm and then his face is in his hand. She reaches over, places a delicate hand on his shoulder and squeezes.

“Not yet, anyway,” she concludes. That nearly makes his sobbing stop. “I do… you can meet her—I mean, you have, she’s seen you at Han and Leia.”

He nods his head. “She has,” he agrees through tears.

“You can meet her.”

He chokes a sob. “I can?”

“But you can’t tell her you’re her dad,” she explains, nodding her head like she’s agreeing with herself. “Not until… not until I figure this out.”

“Of course.” He nods vigorously in agreement. “Anything you want, Rey.”

“Are you staying with Han and Leia?”

“For now…”

“Okay, Han and Leia watch Hope every day, I’m sure they told you.”

“They did,” he says.

“Tomorrow,” she decides. “You can spend time with her. You can’t—”

“I won’t tell her.”

“She’s so stable, we can’t…”

“I know.”

“But you can color with her,” she tells him. “And play with her. You can be her friend.”

“I want to.”

“I know.” She smiles. “I’m happy you're here.”

“You are?” he asks, maybe a little too hopeful. He can’t help but have all this hope, metaphorically and literally.

“I am,” she says. “For Hope.”

“For Hope,” he agrees.


End file.
